


Turn, Turn

by tahirire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comment Fic, Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-23
Updated: 2011-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 05:44:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahirire/pseuds/tahirire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <span><a href="http://spnquotefic.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://spnquotefic.livejournal.com/"><b>spnquotefic</b></a></span>  meme 2.04, <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/spnquotefic/9759.html">Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things.</a> Prompt:  Dean: "I never should have come back, Sam. It wasn't natural. And now  look what's come of it. I was dead. And I should have stayed dead."</p>
<br/>
            </blockquote>





	Turn, Turn

Sam walks in a slow circle, his eyes straining for a better look into the dark corners of the packing plant. The pistol in his hands swings left and then right, covering as wide an angle as possible. He sees the swift blur of fur, but he doesn't fire; can't afford to waste the ammo. Dean does the same, pressed back-to-back with Sam as they keep watch through the interior windows of the supervisor’s floor-level corner office. They’re trapped like Will Smith at the end of that ridiculous zombie movie, and they both know it.

"See anything out there?" Dean hisses. "I can't _see_ anything."

Sam shakes his head tersely. Then he answers, "Nope." He doesn't see anything. He's _never_ seen anything like this - the werewolves are moving in packs, turning at will, turning humans in droves. But he can hear them. He hears them behind the shipping crates and underneath the industrial conveyor belts, and he can sense their eyes in the shadows, watching. Circling. Not attacking. _Why aren't they attacking?_

There is a small rapping sound on the office door. Sam freezes, wondering if he imagined the noise, but then and Dean bumps against his shoulder, breathy _what the ..._ sliding across Sam's ear. Not his imagination, then. They both tense as the noise comes again, this time accompanied by the jiggle of the locked door handle and a muffled woman’s voice whispering, "Sam? Is that you?"

Dean waits for Sam to signal that he’s covered, and he swings the door open, ducking behind it as he goes to give Sam a clear shot. The woman stumbles inside and pulls the door shut again, ducking to stay out of the light. Sam’s Taurus takes an automatic bead for her heart, but his grip on the gun falters as memories come flooding back. "Maddie?"

She's every bit as beautiful as he remembers. Just as smart, too, if the way she's keeping her movements slow and careful and holding up both her hands where he can see them are any indication. Her eyes are shifting, turning from vertical slits to round, open pupils as the wolf inside of her disappears. She looks stunned, but she can't be a tenth as stunned as he is. "It _is_ you," she says, somewhat regretfully, "You can't be here. Not you."

Dean materializes at his side, taking up aim for himself when Sam's trembling hand falls uselessly to his side. "Madison," Dean says, nodding firmly in greeting. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I think you've got that backwards."

"Dean," Sam admonishes, earning himself a nasty glare and an incredulous _really!?_ in response.

Outside of the barely secured room, things are stirring in the dark. Something crashes, and she tenses at the sound, dropping into a half-crouch.

“Don’t move,” Sam rasps, leveling the Taurus a second time. “I will kill you, Maddie. You know that.” Dean winces, probably at the way Sam’s voice is shaking.

She nods, her eyes glistening with tears. “It doesn’t matter. I just came to warn you.”

“Then talk,” Dean barks.

Madison eases herself down onto the floor and curls her arms around her long legs. Her hair is disheveled and her clothes are hanging too loose on her skin. She stares at the back of the door. Sam resists the urge to go to her. She shouldn’t be here, he reminds himself, and he pointedly ignores the tiny voice that whispers _neither should you_.

“Sh - she saved us,” she starts, her voice thick with horror and awe. “From purgatory,” she adds, tossing it out there like everyone should already know. “She says she’s our mother.” She looks straight at Sam then, such a rapid, feral motion that he flinches. “There is a war on for souls these days,” she says urgently. “And everybody wants yours.” Dean’s mouth drops open in protest, but she cuts him off. “ _Both_ of yours.”

Low growls and snuffling noises drift in from the working floor outside. “I have to go,” she says, rolling back up to her knees and reaching carefully for the door. “There’s another exit just to the left of here, through the break room. Wait five minutes, then take it.” When Sam doesn’t respond, she repeats herself, frantic. “ _Sam!_ Take it. Promise me.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and her features soften.

“It’s alright, Sam,” she says gently. “We tried.” Then she was gone. 


End file.
